


singles free skate

by Rest



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rest/pseuds/Rest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re not rivals,” Eric says.<br/>“Bitty,” Kent says. “You’re competing for the same title. Rivals.”<br/>“Rivals are equals,” Eric says, waving a hand half-heartedly at the nickname. “I’m good, Kent, but I’m not Jack Zimmerman good.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	singles free skate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetsunshinechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsunshinechild/gifts).



> For sweetsunshinechild, who prompted: "jack and bitty are rival figure skaters who fall in love - could easily be told in vignettes or a 5+1  ."

“I don’t understand,” Eric says to Kent Parson.

Kent Parson is a hockey player. Eric’s never gotten along with other skaters, go figure (heh), but Parson singled him out on Eric’s second day at the Olympic Village and they’ve been hanging out since then.

“What’s to understand?” Kent asks.

“Well, I—you’re tellin’ me that Jack Zimmerman, way-too-many-medals-winner Jack Zimmerman, Canada’s figure skating prince Jack Zimmerman, misses practices regularly?”

Eric had hoped to watch Jack practicing; they’re supposed to be closed practices, but nothing in the Olympic Village is really private where the athletes themselves are concerned. Jack is something to behold on the ice, and Eric’s never gotten to see him skate person.

Kent had tagged along when Eric told him about his plans for that day.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Rest days.”

“Rest days,” Eric repeats. “Skaters don’t take rest days.”

Jack is the son of a hockey player who Kent calls Bad Bob; Kent and Jack have a surprisingly well-documented friendship, if one counts Instagram posts as documentation. Which Eric does.

Kent shrugs. “Jack does. And anyway, he’s not here. Want to see if pairs figure skating is practicing across the building?”

“Sure,” Eric says. Rest days. Who knew.

——

Eric came out of nowhere, according to the press, just in time for Junior Worlds 2012. He didn’t place, but he was a close second for bronze. Jack Zimmerman won silver that year.

Eric hadn’t come out of nowhere, exactly, but he’d come out of Georgia, which is pretty close to nowhere as far as the world of figure skating is concerned. He’d skated pairs until that year, placing silver here and there, but he hadn’t won a gold medal since he was twelve. When his partner broke her ankle for the fourth time and quit entirely, Eric considered some options. It would be too hard to find another partner in Georgia. Quitting was a real possibility. So was moving to a different sport—he’s fast, he’s always been fast, and he has some connections in the ISU that could have recommended a good coach.

Stepping out on his own is scary, and in some ways a little less fun. But he loves figure skating, so he stuck with it.

The look of determination on his face got the attention of the judges, and as it turned out, so did his all-black attire. What he’d thought looked simple, no-nonsense, was received as “stark,” “sleek,” and “anti-Weir”; it turned out that skating men’s singles without a single rhinestone or feathers was something of a faux pas on the international stage, and just like that, Eric had earned himself a bit of a reputation.

One blog captioned a picture of him mid-turn as _Notable runner-ups include Southern bad boy Eric Bittle_.

——

Jack Zimmerman isn’t private, necessarily, but Eric is all over social media, and Jack literally does not have a Twitter account. Not even one that he’s never posted on, or one that he doesn’t run himself. Jack has no branded presence on Twitter.

Eric finds it mystifying. Intriguing.

He takes a picture of the empty rink Jack had reserved.

 _Looking for skaters in all the wrong places_ , he captions it. #olympicvillage #kentparsonsshadow

——

People love Jack.

He’s the French-speaking son of a Canadian hockey player. In English, he has a soft French-Canadian accent. Canadians go wild for the hockey association and the French. Lot of Americans go wild for the accent.

Eric’s been advised to tone down his accent in interviews, but then again, he supposes Jack has been, too.

——

When he won silver in 2012, Jack wore what looked like a well-fitted suit with golden fringe and epaulets.

Eric remembers him coming off of the ice and toweling his hair. He was grinning, somehow shyly, and his coach was hugging him. He had a real soft look, then, however serious he’d seemed during his routine.

——

“We’re not rivals,” Eric says.

“Bitty,” Kent says. “You’re competing for the same title. Rivals.”

“Rivals are equals,” Eric says, waving a hand half-heartedly at the nickname. “I’m good, Kent, but I’m not _Jack Zimmerman_ good.”

“Have you seen what they say about him? How intense they get? Even Jack isn’t Jack Zimmerman good all of the time. You’ve both won shit, and you’re trying to win the same thing right now.”

See, there’s the thing: Eric’s not a bad boy because he wore black one time. Eric’s a bad boy because in 2013, at Junior Worlds, he took home the silver medal Jack had taken home the year before, and Jack, like Eric in 2012, hadn’t even placed.

——

Jack’s 2013 Junior Worlds performance didn’t involve some dramatic fall or embarrassing flub. He was just slower, that year. Maybe a little less inspired.

——

There’s a knock on Eric’s door shortly after one of his jetlag naps; he opens it to find Jack Zimmerman on the other side.

“Kent says you’ve been asking about me,” Jack says. “Thought I’d say hi.”

 _Parson_ , Eric thinks darkly. Eric hasn’t been asking about Jack. He’s just been… looking for him. Wherever Eric hears that Jack might be. So that Eric can watch him. Ideally without Jack finding out.

All right, so maybe _asking about_ sounds better than _stalking_.

“I’ve been curious,” Eric says. “Oh! I, uh, I knew I wouldn’t have time or space to bake anything here, but I brought, just in case I wanted to give anyone anything, where are they—I, oh,” he says, pulling the Ziploc bag out of his suitcase. “I made maple candy. Most of us’ve been infiltrated by Canadian flavor profiles, I swear.”

He holds one out to Jack. They’re irregularly-shaped lollipops, but they taste good.

“Thanks,” Jack says. He takes it gingerly. “This is… nice. Do you… cook?”

“Bake, mostly,” Eric says. “I like to make pies. See, here’s one.” He shows Jack a picture of the out-of-season rhubarb and crabapple from two weeks ago on his phone.

“Pretty,” Jack says.

“Thanks,” Eric says.

Jack nibbles one of the thin ends of the lollipop.

Eric bites the inside of his cheek. Up close, Jack Zimmerman is still. Whew. Well. Jack Zimmerman’s a _looker_ , Eric’s mama says, and Eric doesn’t disagree.

——

Jack happens to tell Eric where he plans on practicing the next day, which Eric takes as an invitation to join him.

He’s _impressive_ to watch. Eric can see the hockey in him, even with what little hockey he does know; he’s got astonishing leg power, and he’s explosive, moving from one motion to the next in ways that are not just smooth but downright surprising.

“What do you think?” Jack asks when he takes a Gatorade break and skates over to Eric.

“Well,” Eric says. “You’re a lil’ slow, but—”

Jack squats and throws his towel at Eric’s face. “I am not _slow_.”

“Pokey, then, if you have to call it something else,” Eric says.

Jack blusters and stands up straight. “You have your skates? We can race.”

Eric smiles guilelessly. “Well, if you’re gonna _insist_ ,” he says.

They give it two laps from the gate.

Jack is taller than Eric by what feels damn near like a foot, and he’s got the explosive factor—Eric’s comfortable in the knowledge that he might lose. But he sure plans on giving him a run for his money.

Jack gets ahead by a couple of feet right away, but Eric has strides. Eric’s speedy, and Eric’s got an aerodynamic advantage, seeing as he’s carrying maybe fifty pounds less bone and muscle than Jack is.

He’s slightly behind on the first lap, but he starts gaining on the second. For the last stretch, he opens his stride, leans forward just enough, and—there.

He turns to watch Jack turn his own excess momentum into a single, elegant toe loop.

He claps.

“You’re fast!” Jack says, like he’s genuinely surprised.

Eric glides up to meet him.

“I’m little, see,” he says, pointing from the top of his head to Jack’s breast bone, which are at the same height.

“But _fast_ ,” Jack says again. He has that winning smile, the one press guys love to photograph just as he gets off of the ice.

Right now, Eric gets that. Eric wants to capture it too, and put it up on Instagram with the hashtag _#toepick_.

——

At lunch the next day, Eric gets roped into sitting with Kent and some of his hockey buddies. That’s not too surprising; they’re not really on a set schedule, but Team USA has made it easier to get to know the other athletes than it is to avoid them. What is surprising is that Jack’s there.

“You planning on defecting?” Eric asks him.

Jack nods. “If I have to talk about Bad Bob Zimmerman…”

Kent thumps Jack on the back. “Canadians get really excited about their hockey. I, of course, have always been cool and collected about Bad Bob—”

“You call my father _Bad Bob_ , and when you met him, you asked him to sign your shirt,” Jack says.

“—but some of the younger guys—”

“You’re my age,” Jack says.

“—get enthusiastic, and I am an _island of calm_ in Jack’s sea of Canadian Bad Bob fans.”

“Island of something,” Jack says.

“Good one,” Eric pipes up. “’S your father really that big of a deal, then?”

“Bad Bob Zimmerman—” Kent starts.

“Yes,” Jack tells Eric.

Eric nods. “My daddy’s a football coach. High school. I actually call him Coach, which confuses a lot of people. It’s not the same, I know, but goodness, a high school football coach in Georgia, he’s famous in his own way. We can’t ever go out to dinner without getting asked about this year’s offensive linebacker or some touchdown from a game that happened six years ago.”

Jack smiles. “Did you play?”

“Football?” Eric asks. “Heavens, no. Did you play hockey?”

Jack shrugs. “For a while. I got worked up about teams. I didn’t have as much fun as I did just skating, when I wasn’t worried for everyone else.”

That’s… honest. “I love teams!” Eric says. “I always thought it’d be nice to have, oh, synchronized skating? Like swimming, or dance teams. At this level.”

“Why not football, then?” Kent asks.

Eric laughs. “I’m afraid of getting hit,” he admits. “Plus, guys like me, figure skating’s a bit more welcoming.”

Jack blinks. Kent nods. “Yeah, hockey doesn’t like blondes, either,” he says, giving an exaggerated, breathy sigh. “They’re just jealous of our gorgeous, flowing locks, Bitty. Stay strong. Stay proud.”

“Does he do bits like this a lot?” Eric asks Jack.

“All the time,” Jack says, with a little smile.

——

“You’re not at all a bad guy,” Jack says the next day.

They’re watching pairs. Eric’s been trying to explain to Jack why pairs is inherently more fun than singles, but Jack’s not getting it. He keeps talking about the pressure, but for Eric, there was never pressure from the other side. Skating pairs is all about support.

“You think so?” Eric leads.

“I don’t understand why they do it like this. So much—they want us to be different, or we can’t be seen as real competitors. We aren’t so different. I wouldn’t scandalize the whole community, of course, like you do—” Eric shoves him, and Jack jostles back— “but I can’t see how wearing black or choosing one kind of music makes you a bad guy.”

“You want to know somethin’?” Eric asks.

“What?” Jack asks, eyes wider and bluer than they’ve got any right to be. He’s looking down at Eric—he’s pretty much got to—and Eric has his full attention.

“I think my hair makes the press think Plushenko and the Beyoncé makes them think Weir. Between the two…” Eric shrugs. “Well, I was just bound to be somebody they didn’t like.”

Jack’s mouth falls open for a moment, and then he laughs, loud and ungainly.

“And, and me, because I skate to Tchaikovsky, I’m well-loved?” he asks. “That’s fair.”

Eric nods. “I’m a tiny figure skating man from Georgia, Jack,” he says. “It’s all right if I put some people out. I can take it.”

Jack blushes and looks down at his hands. “Good. Don’t let things—hurt you?” he says.

“Get to me?”

Jack nods. “That one.”

——

Jack doesn’t make it to practice the next day.

Eric considers leaving it, but texts, just in case— _Tired of the Sochi rinks already_ , Mr. Zimmerman?

 _Yes_ , Jack texts back. _Come by if you want_.

Well. Goodness. Eric hadn’t expected Jack to just admit it like that.

——

Jack’s lying in bed when Eric makes it to his room.

It’s 3 p.m. in Sochi.

“Hi, Jack,” Eric says when he lets himself in.

“Hi, Bittle,” Jack says. He gives Eric a goofy little smile. His hair’s all wet.

“You got a strain or something?” Eric asks. It’s not the kind of thing a person’s supposed to bring up, but he and Jack have gotten friendly, and Eric’s worried.

“Sort of,” Jack says. His accent’s a bit strong today. “I had an interview, and it made me tired.”

Jack doesn’t have to speak English all that often, Eric gathers, so sometimes he says things like that: _it made me tired_ , instead of _so I’m tired_ , or maybe when he says tired he means _frustrated_ or even _uncomfortable_.

“Was it a bad one?”

“No,” Jack says. “They asked about… expectations. Sometimes that’s fine. Sometimes I get… scared.” He’s moving folding his hands together, looking at his fingers.

“I get scared,” Eric says. “That’s why I look so mean when I perform. I get scared and I go—” he demonstrates the face. Jack laughs lightly.

“Rest days are for when I’m anxious,” Jack says.

There’s a pause. Eric expects him to go on, but he doesn’t. “I was surprised about that, when Kent told me you do that,” Eric admits.

Jack flops onto his stomach and looks at Eric more directly. “They’re not for being nervous,” he says, with a tone like he might be explaining something. “They’re for when I’m anxious. I get—I _am_ anxious.”

Eric thinks about the pills Jack takes at lunch. Eric’s taken supplements here and there, but… “Like anxiety-anxious?” Eric asks.

Jack shrugs. “I see doctors, and I take—” he waves a hand at the end table attached to his tiny bed, which has three pill bottles on it. “Regular. Safe. Only one a day. But I can still have days that are bad for skating. I, uh, 2013? I didn’t have ones that worked right, yet. Made me feel…” he sucks on his bottom lip. “Like a day with rain.”

Oh, Jack. “I have a bunny,” Eric says. “Not a real one. A stuffed toy. Señor Bun. I bring him on tournaments; he helps when I’m nervous.”

“Good,” Jack says, smiling. “I… need to eat. Do you want to watch something with me?” he asks, gesturing to his laptop on the floor.

“Sure do,” Eric says.

——

Back in the day, before Eric was skating singles, he may have gotten embroiled in a minor bribery scandal.

The world of youth figure skating is _brutal_. Eric finds that the pressure lessens as you age and your competition drops off; he might be competing on an international scale, now, but that’s nothing compared to competing with the children of every skating mom in Atlanta.

He had the bright idea at one point to actually bring the pies he’d stress-baked the night before the competition with him to the competition. It was nice. It disarmed people, and Eric was always pleased when he could sneak a small sliver of peach pie to someone whose mother would never _hear_ of them eating sweets. He made a lot of allies on the circuit that way.

He had to stop when he accidentally offered some pie to the judges and they almost kicked him out.

Eric knows why they reacted so harshly—he was good even then, and parents were always looking for ways to undermine him. They seized the chance to make a big stink. It didn’t work, and Eric won second place. So _there_.

——

Jack does an interview with ESPN on the day before the big day.

One of the things they ask is how he’s been feeling about his competition off the ice. If he’s gotten along with everyone, or if things are tense.

“Not at all,” he tells the interviewers, speaking slowly with his accent toned down.

“Have you run across Eric Bittle yet?” one of the interviewers asks. “This is your first time competing against him so directly.”

“Oh, yes,” Jack agrees. “And I’m very glad.”

“Glad?” the other one asks.

“Yes,” Jack says. “Eric Bittle is a wonderful person to compete against. He is amazing to watch and he truly loves the sport.”

Eric RTs a link to the interview with no commentary.

——

Eric surprises even himself in the short program. It does a person good to expect things to go wrong when the stakes are this high. If nothing goes wrong, well, you’ll surprise everybody.

Jack surprises no one by being absolutely brilliant.

——

He pulls the interview up on his phone and brandishes it at Kent while they eat dinner. Or what passes for dinner when you’ve been jet lagged beyond all sense and thrown into simultaneous international competitions.

“Have you seen this?” he asks him.

“Been a little busy, Bits,” Kent says, looking strained around the eyes. He’d played Slovakia that day, and it hadn’t gone as well as Team USA had apparently expected it to.

Eric plays it for Kent. Well, he plays the part about himself for Kent.

“Heh,” Kent says after Eric pauses it. A slight wheeze has replaced his usual laugh. “Jack likes you, huh?”

“I guess,” Eric says brightly.

——

Of course the real big day is the free skating. February 14th.

They try to keep the skaters cloistered from one another, but Eric’s sneaky as all get-out when he wants to be, and he finds Jack in the early hours of the morning.

“Jack,” he says.

Jack whirls around. “Did you—come out of the cleaning cart?” he asks, wide-eyed.

Eric sniffs. He has his secrets. And his dignity.

“I watched your ESPN interview,” he says. “The one where you talk about me.”

“Oh,” Jack says, shifty.

Eric shakes his head and smiles. “I like you too, okay?”

“Do you?” Jack asks. His eyes are still very blue.

“Sure,” Eric says, and when Jack glances at Eric’s mouth, Eric gets on his tiptoes and kisses him.

He breaks away before they can get stupid about it.

“After, all right?” he asks. “I’ll see you after. I know it’s weird, seein’ as we—but, well, I don’t know, I don’t see why competing against each other for one thing has to get in the way of everything.”

Jack nods. “I agree,” he says, and makes moves to straighten Eric’s collar, even though Eric is certain that it’s already straight. “I’ll see you. When it’s over. Let’s find each other.”

“Yeah,” Eric says, grinning. “Just look for the guy biting the gold medal. That’ll be me.”

“Oh, it _will_ ,” Jack says, steering Eric toward the door.

“Don’t you forget it,” Eric says, and then he’s off.

——

Jack places gold and Eric places bronze.

“I _medaled_?” he asks incredulously for the fifth time.

Jack holds the bronze medal hanging around Eric’s neck up to Eric’s face instead of answering.

Then, in front of all the cameras, he kisses Eric.

Not like that. Heavens, no.

Just on the cheek.

But he’s grinning, wide and open, and Eric’s grinning back.

That’s the picture of Eric that makes the rounds this time.

 _Jack Zimmerman (CAN), Gold, congratulates Eric Bittle (USA) on winning Bronze_ , the caption on the New York Times website reads. It sure makes Jack look good—not just the way his hair’s falling into his eyes, but to be so obviously happy for his competitor.

Eric finds that he doesn’t mind one bit, actually, if the press wants to make Jack their golden boy. Jack’s won gold. He deserves it.

Eric reposts that picture to Twitter as soon as he sees it. _#sweetcanadianprince_ , he captions it.

 

 

 

 

——

OLYMPIC VILLAGE BLIND ITEMS

This well-loved Canadian medalist celebrated with most of Hockey Canada after the Mens’ victory on the 23rd. This wasn’t too surprising, given his associations. What _was_ surprising was who he kept at his side all night long. Witnesses report that the Canadian medalist and his friend, who reminds us of a certain Joan Jett song, played their own kind of hockey—tonsil hockey, if you get our meaning—intermittently throughout the night, and left the party together in the early hours of the morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I realize there have to be some glaring inaccuracies in this fic.


End file.
